Simmons, Deborah - The Bachelor Knight

by Andreja Šantl

  Spying nothing, she turned to stare at him with a mixture of horror and wonder, just as though she thought he had sprouted wings and flown through the opening. There had been a time when she thought him capable of any feat, perhaps even that one, he mused, with bitterness. Apparently, the years had altered her view, and she thought him unable even of being a proper husband to her.

  "You might have been killed!" she whispered, her hand at her throat and either accusation or fear in her eyes. Beren decided on the former, for Guenivere could ill afford to lose her new spouse. "Why would you dare such a thing?" she demanded, then she stepped back, frowning. "Why have you come?"

  Beren met her gaze directly. "I am here because I intend to sleep with my wife," he answered.

  Whatever else she might have felt, her dismay now was obvious. "That was not part of our bargain." she repeated.

  "There was no bargain," Beren said. "I recall only that you ordered me to wed you, and I did. Never did you say that you wanted only a mockery of the holy union."

  His words had the desired effect, for Guenivere appeared flustered and bit her lip, an innocent gesture that acted like a kick in his gut, for he remembered it well. It was an old habit of hers, but after all these years Beren viewed it differently. Now the movement drew his attention to her mouth and stirred his body in a way it never had before in the innocence of youth.

  "Now, Beren, you cannot expect a typical marriage when I will be here and you will be far away, at court or your estates or wherever you will be," she said. She waved her hand, as if to dismiss his whereabouts. Beren noted an odd tenor of accusation in her voice that he could not comprehend. But what did he understand of this situation? Nothing beyond his own simmering anger and growing frustration, and he had no patience for this sparring of words that could only dredge up things better left buried.

  "I expect an heir, Guenivere, and you had better become reconciled to that fact," Beren said, speaking as bluntly as possible. Ignoring both her startled expression and his own misgivings, he stepped toward her.

  She held her ground as he approached her, as he knew she would, tilting her head upward in defiance. "What? Would you force yourself upon me, Beren? What happened to your knightly vows, your oath to protect women?" she taunted.

  Beren felt like telling her that her vaunted opinions of knights, based upon the romance stories she so loved, had very little to do with reality. In his long years of fighting, he had seen few men who even remotely resembled those paragons of virtue. And although he had taken his vows more seriously than most, they would not prevent him from kissing his own wife.

  "What about—"

  He cut her off, stopping her words with his mouth, taking her gasp of startled breath as his own, and then his lips touched hers, and he knew nothing, not anger, not disappointment, not the press of old memories, nothing except the heady wonder of her taste.

  Softer than roses were her lips and fragrant as crushed petals her scent. Leaning close, Beren lifted his hands toward her shoulders, where they hovered inches from their goal as he hesitated, still certain he did not have the right to touch the lady of the manor. But Guenivere was suddenly within his reach. And she was not fighting him, either, he realized, with sudden surprise.

  Indeed, for someone who had protested his intent loudly, she seemed most compliant. Her lips moved under his, soft and yielding. Beren lifted his head and saw that her lovely neck was arched backward, her eyes closed, and a becoming flush tinted her beautiful cheeks. The sight of her, so obviously struck by desire, stirred both his mind and his body. The kiss he had given half in anger, to assert himself, now seemed a gift, a precious thing far beyond price.

  Watching her face with deliberate regard, Beren very carefully, very slowly set his hands upon her shoulders. Though his fingers met the fine material that gowned her, he could feel her supple form beneath, and for a long moment he simply stared at the picture they made: His tanned, rough hands settled where he never thought them to be, upon the body of Guenivere St. Leger. The sight was startling in its simplicity, yet so very moving that Beren wasn't sure what was the dream, the past few hours when he had taken her to wife or all the years before, spent in hopeless yearning.

  So fierce were the emotions raging through him and so loath was he to break whatever spell lay upon them that Beren paused, savoring the heat beneath his palms, perhaps too long. For while he stood watching her, Guenivere gradually returned to awareness, like a sleeper struggling awake. As she did, her body stiffened, her lashes lifted to reveal not the dazed wonder that he felt, but the glint of accusation.

  "You give the kiss of greeting very well, my lord," she said. " 'Tis too bad that your farewells are not so sweet."

  Beren stepped back, away, from the denunciation in her eyes, away from the past that threatened to engulf him and yet he felt no better for his retreat, for his hands now held nothing. He stared at them, momentarily struck by the loss, then dropped them to his sides.

  "Or perhaps you have forgotten that you knew me once ere you won your fame and fortune?" Guenivere asked.

  Beren glared at her, willing her not to raise all that he had put behind him. Could they not just begin their lives now, as husband and wife, without dragging up all that was before? Already, he was using most of his strength to avoid the past. Now she would remind him of it? "You know full well that I remember you," he said, harshly.

  "Do I?" she asked, turning toward him. " 'Twould be difficult to know for certain since I have heard no word from you, not one single message since you left this place! You never even said good-bye."

  Beren glanced up in surprise at hearing the break in her voice, and he saw that she had turned away, unable to meet his gaze. With a pang, he realized that try though he might to avoid it, she was taking him back through the years, back here, to the beginning. "What right had I?" he asked, harshly.

  When she spoke, it was with her back to him and her tone low, as though muffled. "If nothing else, the right of any human being to speak to another," she said.

  " 'Twas not that simple, and you know it," Beren said. She had never understood. What did she want from him? The truth? Though he willed it not, it came to him: He had been afraid he would not have the strength to leave, if she had bid him stay all those years ago. Yet, why should he let her rouse that old specter? What did he know of her now but a cold, businesslike offer of a marriage that would deny him his rights as husband?

  "Perhaps you would explain it to me," she asked. In the ensuing silence, he looked over to see that she had turned to face him directly once more, her pale brows lifted in question.

  But Beren had no answer, at least none that he wished to give her. "Then you must leave me to my own assumptions, that you were too eager to leave this place behind and all that it once might have… meant to you. And, so you have far surpassed the prestige of this tiny fiefdom and treat now with the king himself. Indeed, I am surprised that you could find your way back to such a small, insignificant plot of land!"

  So fierce were her emotions that she was trembling. With rage or scorn? Beren did not know, but his temper rose to the challenge. "I came trotting back at your summons, did I not, my lady, like a trained pup? What else would you have me do?" Beren demanded, though he suspected well the answer. He was not to touch her, not to look at her, not to have anything of his own in this bloodless contract, except humiliation.

  At his outburst, her passion seemed to die, her expression growing still and bleak. "I would have had you return without the summons, without my reminding you of your old vow, or did you so forget my father and all that he did for you? Do you know that he died with your name on his lips?" she asked.

  Guilt assailed him, as was her intention, no doubt, and Beren ran a rough hand over his face. What could he say, without dredging up all that he kept buried? How to explain such selfishness when it was so far from the knightly ideal she so prized? He looked at her helplessly, but she gave him no quarter.

  "He was so proud of you
! Like a son, he thought you, though one long parted from his sire. He would have none say a word against you, nor complain that you did not return," she said. But the implication was there: Clement had wished to see him, and Beren had failed his old patron.

  "I'm sorry. 'Twas wrong of me not to come," Beren admitted, swallowing hard against a thickness in his throat. He owed more than he could ever repay to Clement, but he had made not even the meanest effort to do so. He walked to the window and looked out upon the night. "Even Parzival returned, though 'twas too late, or have you forgotten such trivial things?" Guenivere asked.

  Beren heard her speech, soft and reproachful, but it was her mention of the character, so prevalent in her romantic tales, that angered him. He swung round to face her.

  "How dare you stand here and scold me like one of your errant handmaidens, impuning my honor and fabricating motives for me that suit your own purpose? My reasons for staying away are my own and have nothing to do with ingratitude or false pride," Beren said.

  Guenivere held out her hands, palms upward, in supplication. "Then what? Why?" she asked.

  Beren was faced with a choice. What could he answer that would not release the floodgates of the past? Yet how could he lie? And so he settled for something of the truth. "I thought you were wed and would not intrude upon your household," he muttered.

  "If I were married, I would probably not live here," Guenivere answered. "And what did my marital status matter?"

  Was she really that foolish or arrogant or unseeing? Beren stepped forward. "I did not come because I did not care to see you wed to another," he said. Then, he reached out to grasp her shoulders, without hesitation this time. "When I could not have you myself!"

  Beren took her mouth, more forcefully than before, staking his claim, possessing her in a way that was far different from his earlier attempt. Perhaps he wanted to drive away the old memories that threatened, or his awe and wonder were fading with her close proximity. Or maybe his temper drove him, with a mixture of wounded pride and helpless desire. Whatever the cause, Beren caught her gasp and deepened the kiss, entwining his tongue with hers, invading, exploring, and savoring the joining until his body grew taut and hard. He pulled her to him, and all the fierce, hot yearning of the years washed over him.

  Beren lifted his hands to her head, fisting them into her long hair, holding her fast as his hungry mouth ravished her again and again. Finally, he paused for breath, his mouth against her silken locks. "Guenivere, Guenivere!" he whispered. The memories he had locked away for so long rushed over him. All for her. 'Twas all for her.

  And now she was his wife. Heat rose in his blood, throbbing through him in heady victory. In one swift motion, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed, tugging aside the curtains. The covers were laid back, and he placed her against the pale linen, pausing to stare at the picture she made lying there.

  It seemed a dream, for so often had he imagined her thus before he had put aside such fancies. Now he would revel in the sight. Her blond hair, gleaming in the candlelight, lay spread upon the pillow, inviting him to lay his head down beside hers. Her body, slender and womanly, drew his attention, and for the first time in his life he allowed himself to take the measure of her breasts with his gaze, the gentle slopes, the clear skin that rose above her gown. He feasted upon the sight and below, at the indentation of her waist, the curve of her hips, her long legs, more visible now as she lay prone, ending in trim ankles and narrow feet encased in thin slippers.

  My wife, Beren trembled at the knowledge. He let his gaze wander at its wont, then slowly he brought it back to her face, pale and beautiful and beloved. And Beren could not divine what he saw there. Sweetness, yes, and a kind of dazed aspect that could be attributed to desire, but paramount was a wariness, a guarded look that had never appeared in his dreams. He held his breath, dreading her protest.

  Instead of waiting for it, Beren leaned over her, intending to stop whatever words she would put between them, but he halted at the touch of her hand against his chest. Her slender fingers burned through his tunic like fire, but there was no denying her intention: to ward him off. He stayed where he was, watching as she bit her lip. He nearly groaned, for he wanted to bite her lips himself, soft nibbles that led to a voracious feeding beyond his wildest…

  "Such was Parzival's regard for his wife that he did not think of making love to her for three nights after the wedding," Guenivere said, referring once more to her favorite tale.

  "Too late, for I have already thought of it," Beren replied. Indeed, he had dreamed of it endless nights long ago, forever it seemed, until his blood flamed and his body burned…

  "Parzival—"

  Beren blew out a breath in exasperation. "I am not Parzival, no matter how you would wish me to be!" he said, rising to his feet as anger claimed him once again. "Nor am I Lancelot nor Gawain nor any legendary figure of the romances!"

  And finally, amongst all the anger and accusations and long speeches of the tiring night, 'twas that one thing that stopped Beren from bedding his own wife: the terrible reminder that she knew what he was—and never would accept him as such.

  * * *

  three

  Guenivere busied herself sewing. She had continued with her usual tasks this morning, meeting with the cooks while ignoring the surprised glances of the servants and the tittering of her handmaidens. They dared not question her directly, of course, but she could hear their whispered speculations concerning her wedding night and cringed.

  The household was rife with rumor, of course, about how the great knight had climbed up the side of the very keep to enter through her window. The men boasted of their new lord's boldness and daring, while the women sighed at the romantic feat. Only Guenivere knew that romance had nothing to do with it.

  She took a deep, shaky breath, trying not to think of how Beren had kissed her, or worse yet, the way he had touched her, carrying her to bed and eyeing her like a starving villein would a feast. Apparently, men were more interested in such things than she had ever imagined. How else could one barge in and demand intimacies from a virtual stranger?

  It was her own fault for summoning him here, Guenivere knew, yet she had acted out of desperation. After her father's death, the neighbors had swarmed like a pack of carrion crows, eager to dine on her small holding. Yet she refused to hand over her inheritance to any of them. Not many cared for the windswept crags that made up her lands, and fewer still could appreciate its raw beauty. It was a feeling bred into your bones, Guenivere knew, and she wanted no absent lord who would disdain her heritage, abandoning all responsibilities except to exact payment.

  But she was no fool. Guenivere knew she could not have held them off forever, the men who deemed the world their venue and would deny one woman her small holding. Sooner or later, her overlord would have stepped in, awarding both her and the castle to whomever he pleased. She would have been forced to marry someone not of her own choosing, a man who might not have liked her home, who might have taken her away from Brandeth and the people who had so long served her family. That terror, more than any other, had made her swallow her pride and beg for help. And who else to give it to her except Beren—knighted by her father? Had he not sworn allegiance in return?

  Still, it had taken all her courage to send for him, and even Guenivere had not been bold enough to specify her need, for fear that he would never consider it. Worse yet, there was always the possibility that he might turn her request over to someone else, another lord or the king himself, leaving her situation just as dire as before.

  But Beren had come, and he had agreed, and foolishly, Guenivere had deemed her problems over. She had thought that the great Sir Brewere, having fulfilled his oath, would be eager to go on to more important business and finer accommodations. Why would she have imagined otherwise when he had acted as if he hardly recognized her?

  Guenivere swallowed hard for she had known him at once, though he was greatly changed: Indeed, such was the power of his
appearance that her knees had nearly given way. He was not the skinny youth who had left Brandeth, but a man, full grown and fleshed out, hard with muscle and strength that she had felt in his touch, and Guenivere's pulse skittered at the memory.

  Even as a boy, Beren had never appeared soft, yet his face now held the aspect of a fearsome warrior, and for a moment, Guenivere had quailed before him. She had searched for glimpses of the one she had known in his dark eyes, but found them shuttered and steeled herself accordingly. If she secretly had dreamed of another sort of greeting, it had gone the way of all her other dreams, and she accepted his blunt acknowledgment as a harbinger of what was to come: vows made by duty.

  What else did she expect when she had forced this marriage upon him? Guenivere felt a prick of guilt. She had pressed Beren, seizing what she thought was her only chance, though he had appeared loathe to wed her. At the thought Guenivere lifted her chin. Who, then, could blame her for seeking the solace of her chamber? And who would have thought that the solemn, distant knight intended to join her there?

  The memory sent a flood of crimson to her cheeks, and Guenivere ducked her head in an attempt to hide her embarrassment. She did not want her handmaidens to notice her blush and comment upon it, and she was glad that she had sent the overly inquisitive Alice to fetch a draught. Unfortunately, just as the thought passed through her mind, the girl was back, breathlessly reporting that Lord Brewere had arisen and was breaking his fast.

  Guenivere's hand jerked as her pulse quickened again, but she showed no other outward sign of having heard. Whatever Beren was about, she was not interested. However, Alice, who seemed far younger than fifteen years, would not be discouraged by her mistress' lack of attention. She began to carry on at great length about the "new lord."